CHAPTER 3

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Jadzia Dax stood on the deck of the Starship Enterprise with her back to the captain's chair. Because it was the first Enterprise, there was only one direction from which the final attack could come.

The turbolift.

Five minutes ago, when she had hurriedly studied the ship's schematics on the desktop viewer in the briefing room, she had found it difficult to believe that the most critical command center on the entire ship was serviced by only one lift. But in the memories of her third host, Emony, she found the explanation. The more than century-old Constitution-class to which the original Enterprise belonged had been designed primarily as a vessel of scientific exploration. The engineers of the twenty-fourth century might perceive its design idiosyncrasies, such as a single turbolift serving the bridge or fixed-phaser emitters, as design flaws. Dax's third host, however, considered such features to be the last echoes of the twenty-second century's charmingly naïve optimism toward space travel, inspired by the end of the Romulan Wars and the resulting birth of the Federation a mere two years later.

As a joined Trill possessing the memories of eight lifetimes, more or less spanning the past two centuries, Jadzia Dax understood she was more attuned than most beings to the similarities of every age. And the truth was that while technology might change, human hearts and minds seldom did. It definitely wasn't the case that life was simpler or human nature less sophisticated in the past.

But in the case of this ship, Jadzia couldn't help thinking, the designers were behind the curve. They really should have known better. After all, the first Enterprise had been launched a full twentyseven years after the first contact with the Klingon Empire, a disastrous meeting that clearly proved that not everyone in the quadrant shared the Federation's belief in coexistence. And right now, the proof of that was about to face her in a life-or-death confrontation.

Jadzia heard the distant rush of a turbolift car approaching the bridge. She hefted the sword in her hand and with one quick step vaulted over the stairs to the upper deck of the bridge. She reflexively tugged down on the ridiculously short skirt of her blue sciences uniform, changing her balance to be prepared to spring forward the instant the doors opened. If, that is, she could spring forward in the awkward, knee-height, high-heeled black boots that were also part of her uniform.

The turbolift stopped. She held her breath as she faced the doors with only one thought in her mind . . . Klingons—can't live with them, can't—

The red doors slid open. The lift was empty! Then a sudden crash made her spin to see a violently dislodged wall panel beside the main viewer fly into the center well of the bridge. The wall panel had covered the opening of an emergency-access tunnel, and now from its darkness emerged her enemy, resplendent in the glittering antique uniform of the Imperial Navy, a blood-dripping bat'leth held aloft, ready for use again.

Jadzia straightened up, unimpressed. “Worf, that wasn't on the schematics.”

Lieutenant Commander Worf leaped down from the upper deck and moved warily around the central helm console, eyes afire. “I am not Worf. I am Kang, captain of the Thousand-Taloned Death. And you are my prey!”

Worf lunged past the elevated captain's chair, swinging for Jadzia's legs with a savage upsweep of his bat'leth.

Jadzia expertly deflected the ascending crescent blade with her sword as she flipped through the air to land behind the safety railing that ringed the upper deck to her right. Although he had missed his target, Worf's momentum forced him to continue his spin until his bat'leth plunged deep into the captain's chair behind him, shorting the communications relays in its shattered arm and causing a spectacular burst of sparks to shoot into the air.

“Worf, I'm serious,” Jadzia complained testily. “I was just in the briefing room. I specifically called up the bridge schematics.”

Worf grunted as he struggled to tug his weapon free of the chair. “You should not be talking. You should be running for your life.”

He turned away from her to give the stubborn bat'leth one final pull.

Jadzia saw her opportunity and took it. She leaned over the railing and swatted Worf's backside with the flat of her sword.

Worf wheeled around in shock. “That was not a deathblow!”

“I said, I checked the schematics. There is no emergency tunnel beside the viewscreen. You're cheating.”

Worf flashed a triumphant grin at her, his weapon finally free. “If you did not see the tunnel on the deck plans, it means you did not use the proper command codes to access them. To the computer, you might have been an enemy, and so you were not shown the correct configuration.”

“What?!”

“Defend yourself!” Worf shouted. He swung down to slice the safety railing in two, directly in front of Jadzia.

But Jadzia lashed out with her boot to slam Worf on the side of his head, at the same time she swung her sword against his bat'leth to send it spinning out of his grip to shatter the holographic viewer on Mr. Spock's science station.

“You never told me about needing command codes!” she protested.

Worf put one huge hand to the side of his head, looked at the pink blood on his fingers, flared his nostrils in what Jadzia, sighing, knew all too well was a sign of intense pleasure. There was nothing a Klingon liked better than a caring, loving mate who knew how to play rough. “You did not ask,” he said, breathing hard, then leaped over the twisted railing to land heavily on the upper deck two meters from Jadzia.

“You're not playing fair,” Jadzia told him.

Worf shot a glance upward at the center of the bridge's domed ceiling. “That is not the opinion of the Beta Entity,” he growled.

Jadzia risked a sudden look at the ceiling as well. It was maddening to admit, but Worf was right. The amorphous energy beast that fed on the psychic energy of hatred and conflict grew brighter as she watched.

Worf took a step closer. Jadzia took a step back.

“Do not attempt to delay the inevitable. Escape is impossible.”

Jadzia stood her ground, raised her sword. “Who said I wanted to escape?”

Worf took another step, arms reaching out to either side, eyes absolutely fixed on his quarry. “Ah, knowing you must lose, you choose to attempt to take your enemy with you. The w'Han Do. A warrior's strategy.” Worf threw back his massive head and roared approvingly.

“Even better, I have no intention of losing, either.” Then Jadzia slashed her sword back and forth in an intricate display of k'Thatic ritual disembowelment that had taken her past host Audrid more than eight years to master, and finished the motion by unexpectedly launching the sword across the bridge, where it crashed into an auxiliary life-support station.

Worf, who had been transfixed by Jadzia's dazzling swordplay, appeared shocked by what could only have been a careless mistake. He stared at her sword as it twanged back and forth in a shower of sparks from a shattered display screen.

The diversion worked exactly as Jadzia had planned it. As Worf puzzled over the sword, she slammed into him, shoulder first, elbow in the stomach, driving him back until he collided with a station chair and pitched backward, falling flat on his back.

In an instant, Jadzia was astride him, hands raised, fingers scooped in the strike position for a Romulan deeth mok blow to crush the larynx.

Worf fought for breath, the air in his lungs knocked out of him by the violence of his impact. The sweat and blood that covered his face gleamed as the energy beast pulsated above them.

“. . . You can not defeat a Klingon with a pitiful deeth mok . . .” Worf wheezed defiantly.

“There's more than one way to skin a Klingon,” Jadzia said.

Worf's eyes widened in alarm at the thought—and also, Jadzia thought, more than a touch of anticipatory excitement.

And then she swiftly brought both hands down to the sides of Worf's enormous ribcage and—

Worf howled with laughter. He frantically wriggled under Jadzia, ineffectually trying to slap her hands away as he gasped for breath.

“Give up?” Jadzia asked.

Worf's eyes teared as he snorted, “I will not surrender! I am Kang!”

“Ha! I knew Kang,” Jadzia said as she dug in, effortlessly repelling his futile attempts to stop her. “Kang was a friend of mine. And you are no Kang!”

By now, Worf was totally incapable of speech. Any intelligent sound he attempted to make was overwhelmed by convulsive laughter.

Jadzia went for the kill. “Say ‘rumtag,’ ” she demanded as she drove home her attack, running her fingers over Worf's ribs at warp nine. “Say it!”

The word erupted from Worf like a volcanic explosion. “Rumtag! Rumtag!”

With a whoop of victory, Jadzia rolled off her husband and stretched out on the floor beside him, holding her head up on one elbow as she watched him struggle to catch his breath and regain his dignity.

His pitiful attempt to glare at her as he said, “You tickled me” made even Worf burst out laughing again. After a few more aborted tries, he took a deep breath and blurted out, suddenly deeply serious, “Now we are both in danger.”

“Something else you didn't tell me?” Jadzia asked lightly.

She was suddenly aware of the light from the Beta Entity getting brighter, and then the creature was all around them both. She felt a mild electrical tingle over her body and tugged down on her short skirt again. Then the light winked out as the energy creature disappeared.

“What happens next?” she asked, more curious than alarmed.

Worf took an even deeper breath, in an obvious attempt to restore his warrior's concentration. “Nothing. We are both . . .” He fought to stifle an incipient giggle. “. . . dead.” He snorted again and rubbed his ribcage.

“Say that again.”

“The Beta Entity was not pleased with the change in our emotional mood. Thus, it enveloped us and drained us of our life energy.”

Jadzia screwed up her face in confusion. “That's not right. I studied this mission at the Academy. The energy creature that captured Kirk and Kang and made their crews keep fighting to the death on the Enterprise fed on hate. When Kirk convinced everyone to stop fighting and to laugh, to express joyful emotions, the creature didn't kill anyone. It just . . . left.”

Worf had finally regained his appropriately stern expression. “This is the Klingon version of the holosimulation. And besides, it was Kang who convinced the others to stop fighting.”

Jadzia raised an eyebrow and playfully placed a single finger against Worf's side. “It was who?”

Worf smiled. “It was . . . your rumtag!” And then he was on her, running his fingers up and down her sides, until this time it was Jadzia who was reduced to helpless laughter.

Finally, exhausted, breathless, they both collapsed together on the lip of the upper deck, Jadzia sitting up, leaning against Worf's broad chest, Worf's fingers gently untangling the intricate weaving of her twenty-third-century hairstyle.

The bridge of the Enterprise was silent, filled with a soft haze colorfully lit by the shifting display screens that ringed the Trill and the Klingon, a ship out of time.

“It's almost romantic,” Jadzia said softly, sighing. She remembered being on this same bridge—in reality—when she and Captain Sisko had taken a trip into the past. She thought of the legendary Spock again, how close she had actually come to him. She sighed again.

Worf ran a finger along the spots that trailed from her temple. “Perhaps we should return to our quarters.”

Jadzia looked up at Worf and smiled teasingly. “Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could slip down to the captain's quarters. Imagine—James T. Kirk's bedroom. Think of the history.”

Worf frowned. “I would rather not. Besides, we only have the holosuite for another five minutes.”

Jadzia considered the possibilities of the bridge for a moment, but five minutes was more of a challenge than she was in the mood for right now. She ran a finger along Worf's sexily rippled brow. “There's an arboretum a few decks down. Call Quark and book another hour.”

“That is not possible, Jadzia. Odo has requested all the holosuites beginning at oh-seven hundred.”

“All of them?” Jadzia sat up, away from Worf. “He's having a party and he didn't invite us?”

“It is for his investigation of the Andorian's murder.”

“Ahh,” Jadzia said, understanding. Once highly detailed scans had been made of crime scenes, they could be flawlessly recreated with holotechnology, and the computers could be used to call out various anomalies with great precision. “Does he have any new leads?”

Worf blinked at his wife. “Why would he need new ones?”

It took a moment for Jadzia to realize what Worf was actually saying. “Worf, Quark didn't kill the Andorian.”

“All the evidence points to him.”

“All the circumstantial evidence.”

Worf got to his feet. “It is my understanding that the evidence is more than circumstantial.” He adjusted his old-fashioned gold-fabric sash, then turned in the direction of the turbolift.

Jadzia jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm to stop him. “Not so fast, Kang.” She forced her groom to turn to face her. “What evidence does Odo have?”

Worf rolled his eyes, replying like a five-year-old asked to recite logarithmic tables. “The Andorian businessman—”

“Dal Nortron,” Jadzia said. “Let's concentrate on the facts.”

“The Andorian businessman, Dal Nortron, arrived on DS9 last Sunday afternoon. Sunday evening, he won more than 100 bars of—”

“One hundred twenty-two bars.”

Worf glowered at Jadzia. “One-hundred twenty-two bars of gold-pressed latinum—after three consecutive wins at dabo. That fact alone is enough to suggest that Quark had arranged to pay off the Andorian—Dal Nortron—through rigged winnings.”

“Dabo's a popular game in this quadrant. There are two documented cases of gamblers winning seven consecutive dabos, which is within the statistical realm of probability.”

“Not at Quark's,” Worf said.

“Come on, Worf. Odo inspects the table every week. Quark doesn't rig it.”

Worf let his opinion be known with a grunt.

Jadzia shrugged. “Go on.”

“Two hours after Nortron left Quark's, he was found dead, and the latinum was missing.”

“Stop right there. There's no logic to what you're saying.” Jadzia waited for Worf to interrupt, surprised when he didn't. “If Quark had arranged to pay off Nortron with rigged dabo winnings, then why would he kill Nortron to get those winnings back?”

Worf shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. “Perhaps Nortron took advantage of the table once too often. Perhaps Quark wanted people to think he had settled a debt to Nortron and planned, when he had done so, to steal back his latinum. Perhaps he did not like the way Nortron was dressed.”

“Oh well, now, that is motivation for murder.”

“Jadzia, Quark is a Ferengi. Ferengi do not think the way other civilized beings do.”

Even though Worf's sternly delivered pronouncement told Jadzia that her new husband was reaching the limits of his patience, she persisted. “Worf—this is the twenty-fourth century! That kind of stereotype belongs in the dark ages.”

“The Andorian was found dead near the reactor cores in the lower levels. Security monitoring is limited there. Who else would know that better than Quark?”

“You, for one. Maybe we should suspect you. That makes about as much sense as suspecting Quark.”

Clearly upset by her lack of wifely loyalty, Worf glowered at Jadzia. “I am DS9's strategic operations officer. It is my job to know the station's security weaknesses—just as it is in Quark's interest to know them because of his long involvement in smuggling operations.”

Jadzia softened her tone and affectionately reached up to straighten Worf's sash. “There's a difference between smuggling and murder, Worf. Especially since some of Quark's smuggling operations benefited the Bajoran resistance as well as the Federation.”

Mollified only slightly by her touch, Worf regarded her gravely. “He cares only for profit.”

“Granted. But not enough to kill for it.”

Worf brushed aside Jadzia's hand. “This conversation is useless. You have not listened to me at all. You have already made up your mind about the Ferengi's innocence.”

“Me? How about you? You've already made up your mind he's guilty.”

Worf stared at Jadzia as if he really didn't understand what she was talking about. “Of course I have. Because he is.”

“Worf! We don't even know if it was a murder!”

Worf's heavy brow wrinkled, and Jadzia could see he was waging an internal debate. She decided that he knew something she didn't and was wondering if he should tell her. Jadzia decided to help him make the right decision. There were better ways to defeat a Klingon than through combat.

She stepped closer to him, slipping her hand beneath his sash this time. The old Klingon uniforms had no armor, and the thin cloth of his shirt did little to interfere with the contact of her flesh against his. “Worf . . .” she whispered into his ear, “I'm your wife. We have no secrets from each other, remember?” Then she bit his ear lobe. Hard.

Worf took a quick breath, then spoke quickly, as if he was worried that he would change his mind. “Odo showed me Dr. Bashir's preliminary autopsy report. Dal Nortron was killed by an energy-discharge weapon. Odo believes such a weapon would be too primitive to show up on the station's automatic scanning system.”

“How primitive?” Jadzia asked, stilling her hand on his chest.

“Microwave radiation. Extremely intense. It . . . overheated every cell in his body. A weapon without honor.”

Jadzia swiftly reviewed everything she knew about microwave radiation. In this case, it was her own experiences as a science specialist that took precedence over the memories of Dax's previous hosts.

Microwaves were part of the electromagnetic spectrum, one of at least seven energy spectrums known to exist in normal space-time. In pre-subspace, EM-based civilizations—that converged toward rating C-451–45018–3 on Richter's scale of culture—the primary applications of microwave radiation were line-of-sight radio communications and nonmetallic industrial welding, typically with some half-hearted attempts to create first-generation beamed-energy weapons. On Earth, it had even been used for cooking food. Primitive was not the word for it. Prehistoric was more like it, right alongside stone knives and bearskins.

Jadzia took her hand from Worf's chest, amused in spite of the situation to see her groom only then resume easy breathing. “Be reasonable, Worf. Why would Quark use an old-fashioned microwave weapon when he could have disintegrated Nortron with a phaser?”

Worf glanced over his shoulder at the turbolift doors, as if worried someone was about to join them. He took a step back from her. “Phaser residue can be detected for hours after a disintegration.”

But Jadzia curled one finger under his gold sash to gently pull him back to her. “Who would have known he was missing?”

Worf smoothed his sash again, trying to dislodge Jadzia's grip. “Perhaps Quark didn't want to put the latinum at risk.”

“So . . . stun Nortron, take the latinum, then disintegrate him.”

“Just because I believe Quark is a criminal does not mean I believe he is a smart criminal. And would you please stop that!”

Jadzia was about to raise the stakes when she was interrupted by an announcement from hidden speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and morphs, this simulation will end in thirty seconds. Thank you for choosing Quark's for your entertainment needs. Be sure to inquire about our half-price drink specials for holosuite customers when you turn in your memory rods. Now, please gather your personal belongings and take small children by the appropriate grasping appendage. And remember, Quark's is not responsible for lost or stolen articles or for damage caused by micro-forcefield fluctuations. Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

The bridge of the Enterprise melted from around Jadzia and Worf, retreating back into history. Now they stood in a simple unadorned room, its lower walls studded with the glowing green emitters of a compact holoprojector system.

“Please exit through the doors to the rear of the holosuite, and thank you for visiting Quark's—the happiest place in the Bajoran Sector.”

Jadzia and Worf exchanged a look of shared puzzlement.

“That voice sounded like Leeta,” Jadzia said.

“I have heard that Rom is introducing new policies during Quark's . . . incarceration.”

“If Rom is next in line for the bar, I'm surprised you haven't started suspecting him of setting up his brother.”

The holosuite door slipped open to reveal Odo and two security officers.

“Commanders . . . I trust I'm not interrupting,” the constable said.

“We have finished,” Worf said brusquely. He started for the door.

“No, we haven't,” Jadzia countered.

“I'm sorry,” Odo said, “but I do require the holosuites for assembling—”

“That's not what I meant,” Jadzia interrupted. “Odo, Worf told me that Dal Nortron died of exposure to microwave radiation.”

Odo frowned. “That is privileged information. At least,” he added gruffly as he looked at Worf, “it was.”

“Worf was conferring with me—security operations officer to science officer.”

Odo did not look convinced. But then, he rarely did. “Go on.”

“A microwave weapon seems such an unlikely choice to commit a murder, I was wondering if there might be another explanation.”

“I am open to suggestions.”

“Well, if the body was found near the reactor levels, have you ruled out energy leaks or power modulations coming from the power transfer-conduit linkages?”

Odo blinked. “I was not aware that fusion power-conduits could generate microwave radiation.”

Jadzia shrugged. “Not directly. But there's so much other equipment on those levels, a fusion power surge could set up rapid oscillations in various circuits. That's all you'd need to generate an electromagnetic field. And if the field was strong enough or close enough to something that might function as a waveguide, it could reach microwave levels.”

Odo looked off to the side as if reprocessing the data she had just provided. “Could traces of such a field be detected after the fact?”

Jadzia ignored her husband's disapproving frown. “Absolutely. You'd need to examine everything in the area for magnetic realignment, heat damage, even signs of electrical sparking between conductive materials.

“Electrical?” Odo made a sound in the back of his throat, then nodded. “Very well. I'll send a forensics team down at once. If they find evidence of anomalous energy discharges, I'll let you know.”

“And if they don't?” Jadzia asked.

Odo gave her a grim smile, as if he had successfully led her on. “Then it will be additional evidence that the murder was committed with a microwave weapon.”

Jadzia was surprised when Worf suddenly grunted. “Unless,” he said, and Jadzia could sense his reluctance, “the Andorian was killed by an anomalous power discharge somewhere else on the station and his body taken to the lower levels to confuse the investigation.”

Jadzia was pleased that Worf had offered some support for her theory, despite his conviction that the guilty party was already in custody.

But Odo rendered Worf's suggestion unnecessary. “We can rule that possibility out, Commander. I do have enough security tapes and computer logs to establish that Dal Nortron took a turbolift to the lower levels approximately twenty minutes before he was killed.”

“Before he died,” Jadzia corrected.

“He was murdered, Commander. Of that I have no doubt.”

Jadzia ignored Odo's increasing air of formality. “Do your security tapes and computer logs show that anyone else was in that area at the same time?” she asked.

Odo's hesitation answered the question for her.

“I didn't think so,” Jadzia said.

“There's no such thing as a perfect crime,” Odo said bluntly. “I've already connected Quark to Nortron. They were involved in a business dealing together. They had a falling out. Quark killed him. Accidentally, more likely than not. But it is definitely murder.”

Jadzia studied Odo closely. She had seldom heard such emotion in the changeling's voice. Almost as if he were personally involved in this case.

“Odo, did you know Dal Nortron?” Jadzia asked.

“Of course not. Why would you even ask such a thing?”

Eight lifetimes of experience told Jadzia she was on to something. “No reason. But I'd find someone who did know him,” she said. “Someone who can tell you why he came to DS9, and why he went down to the lower levels.”

Now it was Odo who was losing his patience. “To meet Quark.”

“But your own records say Quark wasn't down there.”

“Records can be altered, Commander.”

Jadzia smiled sweetly. Now she had led him on. “Exactly. Altered to take someone out. Or to put someone in. And if the records can be altered so easily, Quark and Dal Nortron could have met anywhere on the station without you knowing about it. And if they could have met anywhere, why did they choose the lower levels?”

Odo exhaled in frustration, but said nothing.

Worf tugged on Jadzia's arm. “We should let the constable get on with his duties.”

“What's down there?” Jadzia asked again as she left with her husband. “You answer that question, Odo, and you'll solve the crime.”

Odo did not respond, but Jadzia didn't care.

Eight lifetimes of experience gave her the answer she knew the constable didn't want to admit.

Somehow, in some way, whatever had happened to Dal Nortron, Odo was involved.

And the answer to that mystery was somewhere in the lower levels.